I'm not sure if my dad visiting was the cause of everything or just a symptom of something greater. In either case, his arrival on campus on Friday for a weekend visit sure acted as a catalyst of some sort, since it turned my normal week into a bizarro weekend.
Obviously, having any family member visit is enough to make things seem a little strange. But it was weirder this weekend then ever before. I spent three days in a daze, having no idea what was going on.I mean, for one, my dad goes to bed at eight o'clock at night. Thus, he wakes me up in the actual morning, when the clock still says "a.m." I was in the Hop at 9 a.m. on Saturday -- I didn't even know the Hop existed at 9 a.m. Bizarre.
There was so much to do with Dad, but nothing to do. We were completely busy, yet utterly bored. It was the classic bizarro parent weekend. But beyond the visiting-parent syndrome, my life took an even more bizarre turn. In fact, my identity all but disappeared, falling victim to the behavior of a lunatic.
It didn't seem that weird when my friend -- who's generally on the edge of completely losing it -- asked to use my laptop this weekend in order to work on a paper. In fact, it was a perfectly reasonable request. And it still seemed moderately normal for her to use my room -- a very comfortable, happy single that's quite conducive to writing -- to work in. I mean, it's hard to concentrate around roommates. But when I started to worry about bothering her by coming home, when I started to ask if I could check my blitz (on my own computer), and when she started blitzing my friends, that's when I saw how weird things had really become. Bizarre, as a matter of fact.
She began referring to me as "the person who works here." She sent me to the Hop, and even to Food Stop, to get her specific blends of coffee (four-ninths decaf, three-ninths cappuccino, one-ninth milk, one-ninth sweeteners). She even requested my BlitzMail password. Just like Sandra Bullock's character in the classic movie "The Net," I was gone, my life taken over by Bizarro Abbye. (And most bizarre may actually be that I really enjoyed her company, enjoyed living her life of insanity.)
Still, the weirdness got worse. I couldn't just fade into nothingness, letting myself rest while Bizarro Abbye did all the work. Instead, I was forced by the school administration to undertake a special mission, to crack the secret, cryptic codes delivered to me in my Hinman Box.
First I had to deal with the inexplicably difficult notes from Off-Campus Programs and from the Office of Residential Life. And then I got the ultimate: a letter from the registrar so cryptic and bizarro that I expected it to conclude with, "This message will self-destruct." Supposedly, it was about major cards, a letter apparently full of information and help for filing a major. But really, it said nothing. It was written in code -- a bizarro code, for which I don't have enough background knowledge to solve.
I mean, really, it's as if the registrar -- like puzzling poet extraordinaire Emily Dickinson -- is writing not for a public audience but for no one at all. Take a look at this quote from the letter (the dash, in an attempt to be Dickinsonian, of course, represents omitted sentences):
You are at the point
In your Dartmouth experience
Where you must file a major "
To file your major,
You first consult
With a designated faculty member
In your chosen major
Department or Program.
Then you complete the card.
Well, the registrar may add a few extra unaccented syllables, but I'm pretty impressed by the letter's keeping with Dickinson's rhythm and, of course, her intolerably cryptic nature. And I'm just thrilled to put so much effort into reading a simple letter and filing a simple major. Thrilled. Who says I have to file a major now, at this "point in my Dartmouth experience?" And why is it called a "Dartmouth experience?" Bizarre. And what about this "designated faculty member?" Does the registrar designate? Or the department? Or do I designate? Only in a bizarro world would I be asking these questions.
But I guess it's only in a bizarro world that I would be allowed the time and energy to turn boring, administrative babble into fun, bad poetry. So maybe I'll just surrender completely; maybe I'll invite my crazy friend to just move in, and I'll permanently become one of the bizarre.
